The Depression

On October 29, 1929, Black Tuesday, the American Stock Market crashed, bringing forth more than a decade of hardship, rough times, untimely deaths, and chaos.

I was born late in this period, but there was still enough want, need, and poorness to go around for the average family.  We lived on a small dairy farm in the far north of New York State, and even though we were off the beaten path, it was not unusual for stray homeless tramps to stop, looking for a meal no matter how meager, whether it be a free handout or most were willing to work at any form of labor for their repast.

There was a semi-permanent transient army of wanderers unable to find a way to earn a living, no matter how willing they were to labor at any honest undertaking.

My Uncle John was one of these almost hopeless gypsies spending many years riding illegally on freight trains from city to city always seeking a better life that never seemed to materialize.  He was somewhat like Hank Snow singing his song, “I’ve Been Everywhere.”  I spoke once of having lived in Lemoore, California, and John said, “Oh, that’s just down the road from Fresno.”  Another time I mentioned spending some time in Pensacola, Florida, and John said, “Yes, that’s where the main street is Palafox.”  Obviously he had been to both places, as he could neither read nor write, much less understand maps.

It seems to me that with the number of homeless souls on the streets of our cities at present, maybe we aren’t too far from those same times of nearly a hundred years ago.  When will our government start counting these homeless along with the unemployed?  Just because a million less are on unemployment, doesn’t mean they all went to work.  The only reason they’re not riding the rails is because the Railroad isn’t running either.